Children Of Pride
by BigFriendlyGun9000
Summary: On hiatus until further notice.


"He beholdeth all high things; he is a king over all the children of pride."

-_Job 41:33-34_

_Paris, March 14, 2014_

The slow drone of a plane flying overhead awoke Dima from his stupor. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air, along with the stench of burning flesh. As his vision adjusted, Dima saw he was lying in what used to be a metro station, underneath a pile of rubble. He dug his way out and slowly, methodically, rose to his feet.

Fire lit the night sky, illuminating the scene of utter devastation that lay before him. Buildings had crumbled. Rubble filled the streets and whatever still stood was burning. Small pieces of debris flew through the air, blown by a hot, hellish wind. A thick cloud of dust hung over the ruined city, and Dima struggled to breathe.

At first, he didn't remember what had caused this destruction-and then it all came back to him. The nukes. The PLR. Solomon. The chase. The firefight. GIGN. Vladmir-_Oh God, Vladmir-_ and finally, the explosion.

As he went over this information, another thought came to him. "Kiril!" he screamed. He was filled with a fear he had not felt before. He had to find him. He had already lost one man today, and he was _not_ going to lose another. Frantically, he began to dig through the piles of rubble, praying to God that his friend would be okay.

After what seemed to be hours, he finally saw a glimpse of pale, white skin. Filled with a new resolve, he dug faster now. Finally, Kiril was unearthed.

Dima instinctively felt for a pulse. He felt nothing. He put his fingers in front of his friends' mouth, feeling for breath. Finally, Dima put his head against Kirils' chest, hoping to hear the distinctive _lub-dub_ of a heartbeat. Nothing. His fear growing stronger every second, he started CPR. Dima lifted Kiril's chin and pushed down on his forehead to open his airway. Then, inhaling, he bent down over Kiril's mouth, exhaling into it. He did it again, then, clasping his hands so that his left was atop his right, stuck the heel of his right hand into Kiril's breastbone and pushed in, repeating it about thirty times. He repeated the process again, then waited to hear a breath.

He was greeted only by silence.

Dima slumped against a wall, filled with a mixture of pain anger, and disbelief. _Your fault,_ his thoughts whispered. _Your fault._ Dima cringed and tried to block it out, but to no avail. _Your fault,_ he screamed at himself. _Your fault! Your fault! YOUR FAULT! YOUR FAULT! YOUR-_

Dima screamed aloud and began to beat Kiril with his fists. Howling, he landed blow after blow, until his screaming was drowned out by his tears. Sobbing, he finally acknowledged the futility of it all. His two best friends in the world had died on the same day-and there was nothing he could do about it.

He didn't know how long it had been when he finally left the station. He had given Kiril the best burial he could- he had left him among the ruins, taking care to cover his body with rubble. Dima knew he would probably be found by French rescue teams, but so would Vladmir, and Dima couldn't go back and bury him. Dima said a quick prayer and set out.

Dima walked for hours through the ruined streets, desperately searching for any sign of life. He had seen bodies lying in the streets, burning in their cars, even sitting upright on benches where they had been sitting. Occasionally he saw something move in the on the fringes of his vision- but it was almost always his imagination. The one time it wasn't, however, it was only a dog. Sad and whimpering, it paced the streets with its hair falling out in clumps. In its mouth it held something. As Dima looked closer, he could see that it was a human hand.

Dima walked on.

As he trudged through Paris, he remembered that at the beginning of the operation, Vladmir had said that Russia would be blamed for the attack. Dima knew he was right. Right now, France was probably planning a retaliatory strike, most likely backed by the U.S. As he reflected on this, he stopped dead in his tracks.

Clad in protective gear, a small group of French soldiers marched up the street, their FAMAS rifles angled in all directions. Dima scrambled for an alleyway, hiding behind an overturned dumpster. The soldiers began to search an alley across the street, their rifles leading the way as they slowly made their way through the tight passageway. Dima listened to them, occasionally peeking up from his hiding spot to see what they were doing. Finally, they seemed to be done, and they walked off into the distance, their footsteps fading away as they left. Dima slowly turned around, only to be faced with the barrel of a FAMAS.

"Get up," said the soldier. Behind the protective visor of his protective suit, Dima could see that his eyes were filled with rage. Dima slowly stood up, his hands above his head. The soldier's eyes darted downward, towards Dimas' MP443.

"Give me that," the man said, keeping his rifle trained on Dimas forehead. Dima slowly reached down and unbuckled the holster, making sure that the pistol stayed in it. The man snatched it out of his hands and threw it aside. As he did so, however, he angled his rifle upwards, away from Dima. It was a careless mistake, and he didn't even notice it.

Dima, however, did.

With a single motion, he brought his hands down on either side of the man's head and twisted with all his might. The man screamed and fired his rifle wildly in the air, but Dima simply twisted harder. Finally, Dima felt the spinal cord crack, and the soldier dropped to the ground, dead.

Dima dragged the man's body behind the dumpster, but it was a futile gesture. Other soldiers arrived-seven in all- and began to spray the alley with automatic fire. Dima was hit in the shoulder and fell to the ground- right next to the dead man's rifle. He grabbed it and came up shooting, cutting down a soldier unlucky enough to be in the center of the alley entrance. He then moved his right index finger forwards and pulled the trigger of the M203 grenade launcher attached beneath the barrel just as three more French soldiers appeared at the entrance. The 40 mm round hit a wall and detonated, sending shrapnel into the men at deadly speeds.

A hand appeared at the entrance and threw a small, cylindrical object towards him. As soon as Dima's mind registered what it was, it exploded in a blast of blinding light and deafening sound.

Dima stumbled behind the dumpster as the three remaining men ran through the entrance. Dima attempted to grab another magazine from the soldier's vest. He grabbed it and drunkenly attempted to reload the gun. _Damn bullpups!_ He fumbled with the weapon before finally he opened the bolt and slipped the magazine into place. Just as he closed the bolt, the soldiers rounded the dumpster to where he sat.

Dima fired wildly at them, hitting two multiple times in the head and chest. The other, however, was hit in the abdomen, and managed to hobble away. As Dima regained his senses, the soldier rounded a dropped the rifle and grabbed his MP443's holster. As he pulled his pistol out, he began to run after the man.

The remaining soldier was slouched against a wall, bleeding heavily, when Dima found him. The man made a last, feeble attempt to fight, pulling out his own sidearm. Before he could even finish bringing it up, he felt something hot enter and exit his head. The last thing he felt was warm blood gushing down his face.

Dima walked back up the alleyway, surveying the results of the battle, when he heard the sound of radio static. He turned his head towards the source, and saw the body of the man who was standing in the center of the alley. Dima remembered that he was the first man he shot during the alley fight. He walked towards the corpse, and sure enough, the man's radio was on. While he thought nothing of this at first, he realized, in a sudden moment of horrifying clarity, that the entire battle had been broadcast over the-

A tinny voice squeaked through the radio. "Support is en route! I repeat, support is en route! Please confirm! Hello? Is anyone-oh, shi-"

Dima crushed the radio with his foot.

Dima trudged back towards the EURONXT exchange where the bomb had been detonated. Many hours had passed, and the moon now shone over the devastated city. Dima had figured that this was where the military least wanted to come, considering the gigantic amount of radiation in the area. He had stolen a protective suit from the man whose neck he had snapped, along with his rifle, his sidearm, and plenty of ammunition. Fatigued, he slouched towards the burnt out shell of what was once a building and sat down inside. His eyelids feeling heavier than they ever had before, Dima closed his eyes and fell into a troubled sleep.

Hours later, he awoke to the sound of…..what? He hadn't heard anything like it before. The closest sound he could compare it to was a large piece of metal scraping against concrete. Whatever it was, it was loud as hell. Gripping his rifle, he stepped outside and –

Dima was suddenly filled with terror. What he saw before him denied any sort of rational explanation. It spat in the face of science. As his mind struggled to comprehend it, he could only do one thing.

Dima screamed.

_DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. _

_Battlefield is owned by Electronic Arts, Inc._

_XXXXXXXX is owned by XXXX XX., XXX_


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